


Under Your Feet

by Cyane (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Scars, Serbia Was A Bit Not Good, Short & Sweet, can be seen as slash, dark humour, lame ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Cyane
Summary: Some things were best left under the rug. Literally, of course. Some metaphorical things, though...





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was on a 4-5 month hiatus and I regret everything.
> 
> Sorry for literally no updates. I got into graphic design and music and it took over my life, but I've come back around with my new CW classes in school. I sorta lost interest in most things. Honestly mental illnesses are killing my streak rn. 
> 
> Anyway. Welcome back, me, you lazy arse. 
> 
> Now! To writing challenges! Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
>  
> 
> I DO NOT CLAIM TO BE A MASTER OF THE MEDICAL ARTS, IN FACT I KNOW NEXT TO NOTHING  
> SO IF JOHN IS DOING THE WRONG MEDICAL TREATMENT  
> I AM SORRY

Some people didn't like the sound of nails or a fork against a chalkboard. The screeching, splitting noise of something just scraping against the squeaky surface. Set their spines sideways, it did. Teeth on edge.

Well, if you've ever heard the sound of a pipe against a human ribcage, that might do the trick just as well. Not just the screaming, or the grunts; but the noise of something metal hitting bones and the deafening crack of bones breaking and popping. 

Generally not fun. 

There are sounds like that- immediate migraine-causing noises that can take weeks to purge from your mind. Some stay with you forever. 

The sound of a boot connecting with ribs was startlingly similar to a pipe, in Sherlock's mind. It was his last thought before he heard the crack- like a carrot being snapped in half- and he fell backwards onto the floor. _Damn._

The masked intruder was running out of the flat before Sherlock could regain his composure. Sherlock's face scrunched up in frustration, going beyond the pain radiating from his torso. The homicidal madman had been near-impossible to find, evading even Mycroft's security, and Sherlock had just ruined the opportune moment to catch him. Unfortunately, the man had whipped out a knife and Sherlock had been off-guard ever since.

A narrow cut across his cheek would serve as a decent reminder. 

Sherlock managed to sit himself up some, letting out minimal noises as he did so, and wiped a pale hand against the wet. He pulled it back to look at it. For a shallow scratch, it was bleeding profusely and it didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. Dark blood lines were running down his face. _Double-damn._

"Was that a client?" Mrs. Hudson's voice rose from downstairs. Sherlock thanked whatever god existed that the murderer had escaped instead of hurting his landlady. Mrs. Hudson was a gift from the same god- and if she got injured while Sherlock was a helpless, bleeding mess, he would never forgive himself. 

"Something like that," He called back warily, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. 

"Hmph," Mrs. Hudson grunted angrily. "He didn't seem very friendly. Did you take the case?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, still gasping for breath, propped up on the couch. The woman never knew the proper time for a conversation, apparently. "Obviously not," he snapped.

"Well, John just phoned. He said you weren't answering your mobile, love. It's not nice to ignore your friends."

 _Sorry, I was a bit busy keeping a murderer at bay in the flat. Didn't have time to answer my phone, it seems._ Sherlock thought sarcastically, but nonetheless he crawled over to where his phone was lying on the kitchen table and managed to click it on. 

**John Watson: I'll be a bit late, extra busy today.**

**John Watson: Shall I bring home takeout?**

**John Watson: Did you take a case? Answer your goddamn phone.**

**John Watson: I picked up something from Angelo's. I'm coming back now**

Sherlock took a deep breath, but didn't bother sending a reply. There had just been a breakout of some disease or other, but it wasn't too bad, (obviously the reason the hospital had been busy) and based on the time and the walking distance to Angelo's and then back to Baker Street... John should be home in- well, exactly forty seconds.

_Triple-damn._

Blood on the tile. Sherlock nudged the rug with his foot in order to cover it up. 

With a massive haul, Sherlock managed to crawl back to the couch and roll onto it, wincing at the fire that roared in his chest as he did so. Definitely some cracked ribs in there. But to hell if he'd let John know he had been battling a psychopath just minutes prior to his return.

Ten seconds.

Sherlock closed his eyes and raised his hands into the typical 'mind-palace' position. 

It was as the door opened that Sherlock remembered the cut on his cheek. And that was the quadruple-damn, but Sherlock was already getting the fuzzy-edges to his vision and wasn't sure how long the façade would hold. 

In came John, faithfully carrying two boxes of Angelo's takeout and looking a bit flustered as he set down the food on the kitchen. Sherlock opened one eye as John turned his back and smiled faintly when John stepped on the rug, not knowing about the bloodstains of the killer who had been fighting for his life minutes earlier. 

Along the way he picked up little deductions, like 'leg acting up again' and 'refused Sarah's request for another therapist' and 'irritated by Angelo's constant discussion of whom John liked to sleep with'. The last two might've not been evident from a glance, but Sherlock knew they were both correct.

He didn't _guess_ , after all. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"You've been like that, all day, have you?" John asked, sounding surprisingly civil considering that Sherlock had just thrown radio silence for the entire day. 

"I do things," Sherlock snarked back.

The doctor rolled his eyes and glanced at his flatmate. Immediately he was hovering over Sherlock, his eyes fixated on the cut. "What the hell is that?"

"A scratch."

But John was already scrambling for medical supplies. "Why are you bleeding?" He demanded. "Did another experiment with the toaster go wrong?"  
Sherlock resented that. 

"Can you sit up so I can put some fucking bandages on that?"

"You ask a lot of questions," Sherlock said, knowing that he would in no way be able to hide cracked ribs if he sat up. Not in front of John, who was by far the most perceptive goldfish he had ever met. Even though he was an idiot. And still a goldfish, no matter how keen his instincts. 

John huffed impatiently. "Sit up, now," He threatened. "Or I'll tell Mrs. Hudson you were fighting _in her flat_." 

Not fair.

So slowly, Sherlock sat up. It wasn't his fault when the pain kicked in again like a physical blow, and he froze, and his eyes closed in concentration, and he could not do so. And, of course, John- being John- knew exactly what was happening.

"Cracked... maybe broken... ribs. You're seriously bloody injured and you weren't going to tell me." 

"Surprise!" Sherlock yelled sarcastically, which only ignited his headache once again. 

So John refused to say another word and started putting the butterfly bandages across the 'shallow' cut. Everything was fine until John started unbuttoning Sherlock's purple button-up. Shit. "What are you doing?" He asked, feigning ignorance. (Something he loathed doing.)

"I've got t' wrap up your ribs, that's what I'm fucking doing," John snarled. In another world, Sherlock might've felt the slightest gratitude that John was so loyal as to care so much. But in this world, John was expecting to wrap his ribs, and that meant seeing his back. And that was absolutely not going to be a very fun conversation. 

"I'll do it myself." He negotiated. 

"Just like you fought a criminal by yourself?" 

"This isn't necessary."

" _Yes,_ it is."

John put a light hand against Sherlock's ribcage and the detective was horrified when he let out a sort of moaning, pained gasp. John smirked, having won the argument, and continued unbuttoning. 

At this point, Sherlock was just waiting for death. John would see- John would _see_ , and that would be the end of it. Serbia would come crashing back, and the nightmares would return, and with them the flashbacks that Sherlock had so carefully hidden away in his mind palace.  
If Mycroft got involved again, Sherlock would lose it. 

It was a great struggle to get the purple button-up off of the man without jostling around his ribs too much. But John managed to, because he was like that. 

"I'll go get the wrap. Try to sit up as best you can."

That wasn't going anywhere, though, because when John returned with the wrap, Sherlock was just flailing around, unable to sit up fully. With a slightly-fond slightly-exasperated sigh, John reached forward and pulled Sherlock forward, carefully but quickly. Sherlock groaned again.

When John reached around to start wrapping, he saw it. 

Well, saw _them_. 

Scars. Indents. Massive rips in the flesh of Sherlock's back, ridges of scar tissue and lines of memory. John recognized them at once. How could he not? They were torture scars. Whips and blunt force trauma and torture and it was _on Sherlock's back_. 

He must've been quite still for some time, because eventually Sherlock murmured, "So now you know."

Those marks were old. Already healed over, scars formed, no blood or raw flesh. Not like the cut or the rib. These were quite old. These had been there for some time, and John hadn't noticed. Sherlock had never told him.

But when he thought about Sherlock... how his flatmate had been about to pretend that things were fine with a few cracked ribs and blood loss... maybe it had been obvious that Sherlock would never admit injury. Hell, the man could be literally bleeding out before he said anything.

No.

John pushed it out of his mind, and wrapped Sherlock's torso. He was a doctor. He was in war. In war, people got tortured, and he was there to make sure that they would survive. Not mentally, but physically. So he wrapped Sherlock's ribs and retrieved the takeout before sitting down next to Sherlock's prone form and thinking about it again.

"When?" He finally bit out, stiffly. 

"I thought you didn't want to hear about my time away?" Sherlock said warily. 

John swallowed. "When?"

The other man took a great heaving breath, as if giving the answer was exhausting. "When I was pretending to be dead. I was taking down Moriarty's network, and I ended up in an avoidable predicament that I failed to see and therefore failed a mission."

Torture. That word was circling around John's head like bees, buzzing uncontrollably. 

Sherlock continued. "It was in Serbia. Only lasted a few weeks. The physical torture wasn't so bad. Honestly sleep deprivation was what made me go..." He trailed off, obviously straying from the words 'crazy', 'insane', or 'mental'. Because he was none of those.

(Well, maybe a bit insane for not going insane, but that was just _Sherlock_.)

Sleep deprivation, mental torture, sensory deprivation. Yeah, John could see how that would break a man like Sherlock. He could ignore physical pain, for the most part. Maybe it still hurt, but it was nothing compared to mental pain. It was why he had gone to drugs. It was why he had called himself a sociopath. It was why he was so careful with his head. It was why the only injury he feared was brain damage. 

John didn't even want to think of what solitary confinement would do to the man.

"And you didn't tell me," He finally choked out.

Sherlock shrugged, immediately regretting the movement as he winced. "You were angry."

"I'm not angry anymore," John reminded him quietly, although guilt squeezed at his heart. 

"I'm not _traumatized_ anymore," Sherlock retorted. 

John sighed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

And then silence fell. No sarcastic remark, no argument, just surprised silence. Maybe that was the worst thing that could've happened. Because Sherlock was surprised to be receiving an apology when he had been going through PTSD- just like John- to deal with torture.

Eventually, Sherlock just sort of slid forward in exhaustion. Emotional, mental, physical exhaustion. And to his surprise, he fell asleep as he did so, his face sliding into John's shoulder. 

John stayed like that for awhile, feeling Sherlock's breath against his neck. 

Then he realized it wasn't too good to have Sherlock's ribs propped up and carefully slid away, placing Sherlock so he was lying down on the couch. Then he threw a quilt over the man and smiled for a moment, but this time it was a sad smile.

What a human.


End file.
